Page 53 of Law Of Love

The grey-haired receptionist glared at him, cocking her head as she repositioned her glasses onto the tip of her nose. “Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to—“

Kaleb huffed, yanking out a badge from his jacket, practically shoving it into her face. She gawked at it for a few seconds before she widened her eyes, nodding, gesturing for us to take a seat and letting us know that somebody would be right with us.

I bounced my leg up and down anxiously as we waited on the rock-hard chairs—with Kaleb clicking his tongue as he cracked his knuckles. He still held onto his badge, and I leaned over and tentatively took it from him, swiping my fingers over the cool metal. I couldn’t sit in silence any longer.

“Do you carry this with you everywhere?” I asked, and he nodded.

“Except for when I go to the shooting range.” His eyes were fixated on the wall in front of us. He always seemed to close himself off when I brought up his job.

“Brent told me about the raid you guys did a little while ago, where that guy died.” I wasn’t sure why I was bringing it up, but a small part of me hoped that Brent was exaggerating. Knowing that Kaleb was risking his life every time he disappeared to work caused my stomach to flip.

His eyes faltered, and he turned to me with a stone-cold expression. “He wasn't the first and certainly won't be the last.”

It was the harsh reality of his line of work. Deep down, I knew that, and I cleared my throat, waiting a few seconds before asking my next question. It’d been playing on my mind recently, but I hadn't mustered up the courage to spit it out. I took a deep breath. “Have you ever killed anybody?”

Kaleb froze, greedily inhaling oxygen as he gazed down at the rings wrapped around his fingers, playing with them—yet another nervous habit he seemed to possess. “I have.”

It wasn't the news that I wanted to hear, but I’d been expecting it. He killed criminals—criminals he had to kill before they killed him.

“Does that make you look at me differently?” Kaleb queried, hiking his eyebrows up, the artificial police station lights casting shadows onto his high cheekbones and jawline, making them look even more defined.

“No. You have to do it.”

He chuckled—no humour to it. “That's a nice way of calling me a murderer.”

“You’re not a murderer, Kaleb.”

He hummed. “I've seen more shit in the past five years than most people see in their entire lives. I've had people I’ve worked with die on me, and I've had to watch them bleed out on the floor of old warehouses, too busy trying to stop myself from getting killed to save them.” He cocked his head at me. “I knew what I was signing myself up for, though. I knew the nature of the line of work I was going into when I started, but nothing prepares you for the feeling you experience when you shoot your first live person in the head or when you watch one of your friends die at your feet for the first time. That shit fucks with you, and now I think nothing of it. I’m so accustomed to it that I actually enjoy killing people that deserve it.”

I ground my teeth together, placing my hand on the side of Kaleb's cheek, caressing it gently. “Maybe you need to talk to someone about this.”

“The base has therapists. It's one of the reasons they want us to live close to them—so they can monitor our well-being. A few people within the organisation have taken their own lives.”

I inhaled deeply, the thought of him ever having to deal with those sorts of emotions causing my heart to ache, and I opened my mouth to speak, but he interrupted me with a chuckle.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm not about to jump off the top of a building. Who would rid the world of sex traffickers and mafia lords, then?”

“Mr Evans, it's good to see you.”

I dragged my eyes away from Kaleb at the sound of the voice, glancing at the stocky, bald man in uniform peeking out of his office, waving the both of us inside.

“Mr Walliams,” Kaleb greeted, closing the door behind him and pulling a chair out for me, placing my phone on the desk.

“What can I do for you today?” he asked as he typed on his computer, a friendly smile plastered on his face.

“This call,” Kaleb said as he tapped on my screen. “Trace where it came from.”

I sighed. He really wasn't one for manners, was he?

Mr Walliams snickered, taking my phone in his hands. “Demanding as always, Mr Evans. I'll just need to take a few details first.”

Twenty-four: Freya

Defeated. There was no other word to describe how I felt.

Kaleb and I had waited around at the police station for almost two hours before Mr Walliams came to tell us that the call was untraceable. Kaleb, being Kaleb, had kicked up a fuss and demanded that they try again, but after an uncomfortable stare-off between the two men, I dragged him home.

I fiddled with my phone as I gawked absent-mindedly at the TV in front of me. Kaleb had thrown on some crappy late-night television, and he continuously snuck glances at me with perturbed brows.

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